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I’ve never told anyone this before, and I can’t really believe
I’m even writing it down. God, I could’ve just imagined the
entire thing, but I don’t know. Since I don’t plan to let anyone
read this thing ‘til long after I’m gone, I’ll give whoever’s
reading this some information about myself. My name is Stan, short
for Stanley obviously; I work for the post office. The year is 1972,
and I am now 35 years old. At the time, I was living just outside of
Cheboygan, Michigan. It isn’t exactly an uncivilized section of
the state, but there are places where one can be very alone in the
woods, if you know what I’m saying. Don’t get me wrong! I kinda
like the area because it’s out in the boonies. That’s part of
its charm. Anyway, I’m originally from Cleveland, but after the
waters lit on fire in ’69, I figured I should get out of the big
city and away from all that gunk. I left my mother behind in a home
because her memory was shot, and I feel bad about it, but what could
I do, right? I figure they’d be able to take better care of her
than I could without any job. I liked the sound of this place
anyway, and I knew it was pretty low key. So, that’s why I’m
here.